Hooked by Matt Richtel Read Free Book Online Page A

As time passed, it became our singular term of endearment.
    But I didn’t give in immediately. Following our fight, I slowed the engine. I started peeking around corners. One night, we were about to climb into my car after going to a movie. Annie asked for the keys and told me she was driving. I sat in the passenger seat, she put a finger to my lips, encouraging silence. Then she pulled out a black scarf, wrapped it across my eyes, and tied it behind my head. I laughed as we drove in circles around town for half an hour. She was trying to confuse me as to our destination. I was imagining we would wind up in a hotel bed, with me wearing only the blindfold.
    We finally parked. She led me into a building and up a set of stairs. It felt familiar. I remember the smell of cinnamon cookies coming from somewhere nearby. She leaned in close and whispered, “Please trust me . . . again.”
    I heard her put a key in a lock and open the door. She undid the blindfold and held my gaze.
    “I’m getting there,” I said.
    I realized we were standing in the doorway of my apartment.
    “Surprise,” Annie said, pointing me to a pile of gifts: a quill pen, a stack of crepe stationery with my initials, and a new Mac with a big, dazzling screen, all of it sitting on an antique mahogany desk. Annie said she wanted to share the wealth of a deal that had yielded her father’s firm tens of millions of dollars. I ran my hands over the carved side of the desk.
    “I can definitely be bought,” I added, mostly joking.
    “No you can’t,” she said, taking my face.
    “They’re a writer’s rocks and sticks—his tools.
Your
tools,” she whispered into my ear. “Keep creating. Keep building.”
    From then on, I wrote Annie poems, and left goofy messages on her answering machine, and put notes on her car, and I never doubted her again.
    Back at Cypress Lawn, I was shaken from my memory by the voice of a minister delivering a by-the-book eulogy. Simon Anderson, loving father and husband, charitable man, passionate in his pursuits, taken from us too soon. Anderson’s brother spoke next. He was strikingly attractive, as were many of those in attendance. The kind of gene pool drawn to San Francisco, but even more so. Many men wore ties, a fashion relegated to weddings and funerals. Anderson’s brother described his sibling as a wicked-quick study, who would have struck it rich even without help from the dot-com boom; a pilot and adventurer with an effortless charisma, and a husband and father who cherished his family.
    “I know things got a little rough at the end,” he said, looking at the widow. “He wouldn’t have wanted pity from anybody. You know Simon. He would’ve wanted a proper wake. So let’s drain one more keg.”
    The crowd began to disperse, and I noticed a hundred hands reach into pockets to extract cell phones. It was like the airplane had just landed. I looked for an in-person conversation. I saw one mourner in a dark suit hobbled by a leg cast. His face was scabbed. I started walking toward him just as he was approached by two serious-looking gents, one bearing a notepad. Cops. I turned in the other direction and took a stroll on the giant lawn, which reminded me of the setting of Annie’s memorial service, with hundreds mourning a tragic death at sea. By then, there was little hope her father’s no-holds-barred search effort would yield a miracle, or even a body.
    A line of Anderson’s mourners began an orderly exit. In one of the nearby cul-de-sacs of the massive cemetery I noticed one car staying put, and out of the way—a beat-up green Honda with a ski rack and its driver slunk behind the wheel.
    Erin Coultran was lurking.

11
    I expected Erin to hit the throttle when she saw me, but she didn’t. She did start rolling up her window. Then she paused and stared at me through dark glasses with purple frames, seemingly lost in analysis.
    “Get in,” she said, with a sudden sense of purpose.
    We drove in silence away